


In Hell Alone

by Saucery



Series: Daredevil Stories [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amorality, Ankle Cuffs, Blind Character, Blindness, Bondage, Canon Disabled Character, Captivity, Chains, Crimes & Criminals, Dark, Discipline, Disturbing Themes, Dom/sub Undertones, Drama, Edgeplay, Enemies, Evil, Forced Orgasm, Good and Evil, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Hatred, Immobility, Kidnapping, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Nipple Play, Nipples, Non-Consensual, Organized Crime, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Quiet Sex, Rape, Resistance, Scratching, Self-Sacrifice, Sidekicks, Silence Kink, Smut, Snark, Teasing, Training, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Villains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Wesley acquires a new pet.</p><p>Or, all Wesley wants is to not be in hell alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Hell Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Please be warned that this story is incredibly dark and incredibly disturbing, and has no redeeming qualities whatsoever, save, perhaps, for its hastening my inevitable descent into hell.
> 
> Please also note that I have only watched the first four episodes, so far, and that this story therefore occurs in some nebulous timeframe after the fourth episode and before any of the others. Er, yay? And I haven’t read the comics (yet), so my characterizations are based solely on the TV series.
> 
> The title is from Kahlil Gibran’s “The Madman.”

* * *

 

James closed the door to his bedroom, admiring the view in front of him. After all, he had a vigilante chained to his bed.

Matt Murdock, intrepid justice-seeker and official thorn in Wilson Fisk’s side, glowered in James’s general direction. His blindness had been a surprise, a tactical shock of the type that James prided himself on being too smart for, too perceptive for. That Matt had outwitted James, albeit temporarily, was a source of both frustration and wonderment, and James had the most peculiar impulse to punish him for it _and_ reward him for it.

And thus, when Santino had given away Claire Temple’s location, and Claire’s hacked phone had inadvertently unmasked Matt, James had requested of his employer that Matt be given to him as a gift. Fisk had raised an eyebrow, as James was not in the habit of making requests, and after reflecting on it, had apparently reached the conclusion that enslavement to James was a torment even Fisk could not outdo.

 _Destroy him_ , Fisk had said. _Shatter his will_.

 _I intend to_ , James had replied. _Thank you, sir_.

Matt was spreadeagled on James’s bed, cuffed securely to the bedposts, metal chains linking and interlinking behind the headboard, leading to wide leather bands snug around his wrists and ankles. It was a vision as pornographic as the centerfold of a particularly depraved periodical, and James spared a moment to be glad of Fisk’s favor. James hadn’t expected his gift to be delivered to him so thoughtfully.

“I can hear that fucking watch of yours,” Matt growled. “You’re Fisk’s asshole secretary.”

“You recognize me.” Purely because of a ticking watch? Remarkable. Matt’s hearing must be extraordinarily—and deliberately—developed. That degree of mastery over the self was extremely laudable, and simultaneously promising, because it proved that Matt _could_ be mastered.

“Where’s Claire?” Matt demanded. “What have you done to her?”

“Miss Temple is recuperating from her injuries under the care of Mr. Fisk’s personal physician, and is therefore receiving arguably the best medical treatment in New York. She’s alive, and is, by all accounts, getting livelier. Never fear.”

“And what’s… What’s gonna happen to her when she recovers?”

“She’ll be auctioned off with the rest of the Russians’ merchandise, I presume. Her courage and her beauty should fetch a high price.”

“No,” Matt said, as if denying the situation would change it. “ _No_. You can’t—she’s just—”

“Or,” James offered, “you could cooperate with me, and I could ensure that Claire is restored to her normal life, unharmed.”

“Cooperate? How? By spilling the beans about which Russian gangster literally pooped his pants when I ambushed him?”

“Don’t be coy,” James tutted. “What of Mr. Nelson and Miss Page? You may have spirited them away, somewhere—likely a place even you do not know of, so you cannot be tortured into divulging it—but we will capture them, and when we do, any merit you score with me might win them clemency.”

“How senior are you in Fisk’s pecking order? Can you guarantee their freedom?”

“I can.”

Matt mulled over it, frowning, and ultimately grumbled: “Fine. But I’ll require ongoing confirmation of their status, and Claire’s.”

“That’s doable.”

“What the heck should I call you?”

“My, that was egregiously impolite of me, to not introduce myself.” James adjusted his glasses. “James Wesley, at your service.”

“Wesley the weasel,” Matt drawled, as if he weren’t unarmed and trapped in enemy territory. “The name fits you.”

“Indeed,” James concurred, lust flaring within him at Matt’s rebelliousness. “And your name fits you. Murdock the murderer.”

Matt didn’t have an answer to that. Misplaced guilt? An overactive conscience? How precious.

“Be at peace with yourself, Matthew,” James said, amused. “You’re a devil in a suit, just like I am.”

“I’m _nothing_ like you.”

“You are. Granted, your suit is made of a different material, and it’s a rather gauche shade of red, but it is a suit.”

“It’s red so that it doesn’t show up the blood.”

“My argument exactly.” James sat at the edge of the bed. “Blood, Matthew. You’ve bathed in it as much as I have.”

“Mine was a five-minute shower. You have a goddamn jacuzzi.”

“A jacuzzi you’d look very fetching in, no doubt. Matt. May I address you as Matt?”

“Knock yourself out. In fact, please knock yourself out. You’d be more fun unconscious.”

“Oh, kinky. Just like I imagined.”

“You imagined me being kinky?” Matt said in disbelief, which was adorably naive, given that he was tied to James’s bedposts.

“I imagined you in all sorts of ways. It started even before I knew what you were, at that first meeting of ours, when you pretended to be a humble lawyer. You had this delightful electricity to you, something that sparked and glimmered, like the bright corners of a gem through the darkest velvet. You couldn’t entirely hide your inner self, could you? I sniffed it out, that watchful menace of yours, that sense of claws deceptively sheathed.”

“You’re comparing me to an animal.”

“But you are an animal. Aren’t you, Matt? My very own pet tiger.”

Matt bared his teeth. “I’m no one’s _pet_.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my righteous, delusional friend. I haven’t put a collar on you, yet, but I will. A mark of ownership to mar the line of that pale, lovely, unclaimed throat.”

Matt actually looked ill. “You’re sick.”

“Then we suffer from the same disease. Let me enlighten you as to its nature.”

“No, thanks.”

“Tsk, tsk. And here I am, endeavoring to help you. Listen, Matt. It took me ages to realize, but… I’m not teetering on the brink of an abyss. I am the abyss.” James tilted Matt’s chin up. “You understand what I’m saying, don’t you? You have an abyss in you, too. I can feel it. The gaping maw in your soul.”

“At least I have a soul,” Matt retorted.

“True.”

Matt snapped at James’s fingers, and James snatched them back.

“Don’t make me gag you, sweetheart. Not when your tongue could be put to better use.”

“Cussing you out?”

“Not quite. Although, to be honest, I do enjoy you cursing me, almost as much. Damned with faint praise, or praised with faint damnation? If I’m to be damned, I’ll drag you into the pit with me.”

“Yeah? And how do you plan on doing that?”

“By forcing you to come, mostly.” James smiled, even though Matt couldn’t see it, the shark-like hook of it. “Again and again, until you’re begging for more. Or maybe just begging me to stop.”

Matt tensed, a palpable horror descending upon him, paralyzing him briefly before his struggles renewed. “Get. Away. From. Me.”

James laughed. “You act so scandalized. What did you think you were doing in my bed?”

“Catching some Zs before you summoned your goons to interrogate me? Before you poured kerosene on me and set your sheets on fire? I dunno, you creep. I don’t think like a villain.”

“Of course you do, silly thing. You wouldn’t have been a danger to us, if you didn’t. Isn’t that what all those corny television shows say? The shows with the detectives who have to think like serial killers?”

“So you admit to being a serial killer.”

James lifted a shoulder in an unseen shrug. It was oddly liberating, to not be seen by a man who himself was helplessly on display. It was a pity that James had no excuse to blindfold Matt, but perhaps he would, nonetheless, just for the pretty picture it would make. “Only by proxy. I don’t get my hands dirty with tasks as menial as slaughtering. Not when I could be getting them dirty playing with _you_.”

Matt flinched when James opened his bedside drawer, and took out the pair of scissors he kept there, for reasons that usually involved bandaging his wounds, instead of unwrapping gifts. When James began cutting Matt out of his clothes—a worn T-shirt and equally worn jeans—Matt went still, all over, breathing through his nose. Calming himself. Centering himself.

“Don’t insult me by meditating while I despoil you.”

Matt didn’t respond. Ah, so this was to be the game, was it? Very well. If Matt was going to conceal himself in the twisty little maze of his twisty little mind, James would discover every path of pleasure that led to him, and several paths of pain, besides. If neither of those worked, he would simply raze the maze to the ground, and _take_.

Eventually, denim and cotton cut away, Matt lay nude and exposed. Exposed like a nerve—a nerve that would soon sing, a wire that would crackle and leap.

James contemplated the lay of Matt’s body, as he would that of a land he hoped to conquer. It was a pleasing landscape of lean muscle and moonlit skin, scarred in broad, silvery stripes. Very much a tiger. A midnight creature of feral power, coiled and waiting to pounce, except that it was caged, and was, therefore, biding its time. Feigning motionlessness. Indifference.

But that skin was hot, and living, and vulnerable.

A part of James yearned to strip himself and press his nakedness to Matt’s, to warm himself, the coldness in him that never thawed. And yet, as always, a larger part of himself wanted to stay apart, above, poised while others fell prey to sensation or sentiment. Even Fisk was below him, on the ladder of composure, if there was a ladder. James was sure there was.

Matt’s eyes were somehow more defenseless than his flesh, because they sought James out without being able to find him, and there was an innocence in it, or at least a facsimile of innocence. Matt might be attempting to disarm James in the only manner he could, by making himself appear hapless. Given what he routinely accomplished as the city’s champion, Matt had probably already identified the location of James’s face, and the angle at which Matt would have to strike to smash it.

That wandering gaze was a feint.

So enchantingly clever. Devilish and bedeviling.

James commenced his seduction with fleeting, teasing touches along Matt’s legs, the sensitive hollows of his knees and the soles of his feet, his calves and his thighs, pausing only at the pulse-points, to test whether he was succeeding in disrupting Matt’s meditative trance, the trance of a fighter clearly trained to maintain it at all costs.

Matt’s pulse remained steady, if not precisely slow, but James was patient. He lulled himself into a trance similar to Matt’s, savoring the impressions his fingertips gathered—intelligence of an intimate kind, decoding bruises and scrapes and those magnificently revealing scars. All bodies had their secrets, and James was a virtuoso at unearthing them, uprooting hearts from the sticky soil of their ribcages, if he had to. (Even if, as he had said, he preferred having his colleagues and lackeys dispensing any necessary violence. It was, generally, beneath him.)

After charting every landmark on Matt’s torso, and committing it to memory alongside James’s deductions, James began to flick idly at Matt’s nipples. They were tight and small, smudges of possibly-brown in the dimness of the room, and they stiffened obligingly at the attention James gave them, such that James brought his thumb up to his own mouth, licked it, and lowered it to swipe wetly across each nipple in turn.

They were hard, gleaming pearls when he was done with them, polished by James’s saliva after the dozens of times he’d repeated the process of toying with them, wetting them, pinching them. Matt’s chest was rising and falling noticeably, his breaths getting faster. When James casually cupped Matt’s throat and gave it a companionable squeeze—not intended to be altogether threatening—he noted that, yes, Matt’s pulse had at last become thready.

That, and Matt’s cock was at half-mast, sweetly hesitant, timid like Matt never was.

Matt’s eyes were blank, now, no feints, no tricks, just an escape into the featureless void within himself.

Suddenly, James’s own heartbeat quickened. That didn’t happen with him, all that often, unless he had someone begging. But then, for a person like Matt, this was as bad as begging, wasn’t it? Was Matt picturing that uppity nurse, in James’s stead? Or did he not wish to sully her by doing so? Was he reminding himself of how he was doing this for her, while being too noble to blame her for it?

James had bartered Matt’s compliance for Claire’s safety. That said, Matt couldn’t be anything but obedient, bound as he was. It was delicious, knowing that Matt’s surrender wasn’t genuine, that if he could move, he’d brutalize James just as he’d brutalized the Russians. Surely, Matt had doled out enough cruelty to deserve it, in return. James was an impartial instrument of fate—or even an instrument of God. A vicious and capricious God, yes, but wasn’t God invariably vicious and capricious?

James ran his nails lightly over Matt’s neck, against his bobbing Adam’s apple, and down to his nipples again. When he got to Matt’s dick, he scratched it gently, along the underside, until Matt was fully erect. James trailed his nails up to the frenulum and across the glans, which was growing slick with pre-ejaculate.

Matt’s hips jolted, and he stifled a sound. A moan? A plea? No matter. James persisted, as if hypnotized, compelled by Matt’s unwilling excitement. It was mesmerizing. There was a sacredness to the charged silence that surrounded them, but James gave in to the urge to speak, to praise, to admire, to tell Matt how gorgeous he was.

“That’s it,” James encouraged him. “That’s my boy. You’re doing so well.”

Matt’s brow furrowed as if in distress, or in agony, but James wasn’t hurting him. He hadn’t had to, because Matt was giving him everything he coveted, a confession that was no less real for being unspoken. Matt’s refusal to talk, his refusal to participate in any fashion, was intoxicating.

“You need to come, don’t you? Don’t worry, I won’t make you ask for it. Not today.”

Matt glared at James. Directly at James, which meant that Matt’s facade of unawareness had fractured under the weight of his desperate indignation. As it was the only weapon left to him, James decided to indulge him by allowing it. Matt’s limbs were strained and quivering, his temples shining with sweat, tension strung through him, as if he were a string stretched taut between the pegs of a harp, aching to be plucked.

“Beautiful,” James murmured, hushed despite himself. This was… it was a religious experience, to behold Matt martyred in ecstasy, crucified upon it, a sacrifice to every unholy fantasy James had ever had of him, of bringing the wildcat that was decimating the underworld of Hell’s Kitchen to heel. He had to collar Matt, _had_ to, had to have Matt crawling for him, bent over for him—

He wrapped a palm around Matt’s leaking cock, pumping steadily, and Matt groaned, a submission that made James shiver, that made his own prick twitch in his trousers. Oh, he could be merciful. He could give Matt what he craved, out of gratitude to Matt for giving himself to James. So, he kept stroking, relishing Matt’s quiet gasps, the subtle writhing of his hips as he tried not to thrust and failed.

When Matt came, it was with an arch that seemed impossible, the cuffs clanking loudly as Matt tossed his head, shooting rope after rope of come onto his spasming belly, all of his involuntary noises choked off as if by a noose. And, as if suspended by that noose, Matt hung in the air, his back a curve as sheer as a sickle’s, and as sharp. James could slice himself on it.

Matt collapsed, panting, his features contorted into an expression of such intense self-hatred that James had to fight not to tug his own dick out of its confines and jack off on that perfect, perfect face. But this night was for Matt, a glimpse into how generous James could be, if Matt earned his generosity.

Flooded with a strange, unfamiliar tenderness, he leaned in to kiss the hinge of Matt’s clenched jaw.

Matt wrenched away from the kiss, as far as he could, and when he spoke, there was a deadness, a flatness, a terrible certainty in his voice. “I’ll kill you,” Matt rasped. “And I _will_ make you ask for it.”

James chuckled. “I look forward to that.” He wiped his gummy hands on tissues from his bedside table, because he had the distinct notion that if he told Matt to suck them clean, they’d be bitten right off. “As an award for your performance, this evening, I’ll arrange for proof of life from Claire, tomorrow. As long as you continue keeping me happy, I’ll keep her safe.”

Some of the self-loathing faded from Matt, likely because he was reassuring himself that it was a fair trade, an inevitability. Heroes were so charmingly predictable. James could easily foresee how he’d break Matt, bit by bit, extracting greater and greater compromises from him in exchange for Claire’s protection, and then a child’s chastity, and then the survival of a few beaten-up prostitutes. If Matt was convinced that civilians were being held hostage, he would permit James to hold _him_ hostage, and that—

That had endless possibilities. Endless.

“You’ll forgive me for not unlocking the cuffs,” James said, mildly, “but I can’t trust you not to flee. I’ll retire to the guest room, tonight.” It occurred to James that he could wash Matt, could sponge him down with a damp towel, could give him the dignity of cleanliness and show him how cherished he could be.

But it was too early in Matt’s taming for that; there were additional lessons to be taught, before then, lessons of deference and respect. Currently, it was sufficient to leave Matt in his own mess, itching as his semen flaked and dried, acutely conscious of what James did to him, drifting into a fitful sleep seething with nightmarish memories of his violation, and waking to the absolute reality of his own debasement, the undeniable evidence of his response to it.

Smelling it on himself. His filth. His shame. His desire.

“You aren’t fucking me,” Matt stated, tiredly, as if he didn’t have the energy to pose a proper question.

“I’m a gourmand that consumes my meals in courses, tasting every element of every dish. Patience is the finest spice.”

“What does that even mean?”

“This was merely an aperitif. The appetizer is yet to follow, as is the main, and the dessert.”

“There won’t be a cherry on that dessert.”

“Are you implying that you are less than virginal, in that regard?”

“So sorry to ruin your present,” Matt said, regaining his sarcasm, though it was weak and faltering.

“My dear, it is for me to ruin _you_. Believe me, none of your past encounters will measure up to what I have in store.” James ambled to the door, and prior to departing, he said, “Goodnight, Matt. Pleasant dreams.”

The door clicked shut behind him, soft as a whisper, final as a guillotine.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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